Moonflower
by moonflowers-tea
Summary: Wammy's House is a magical place.
1. B

**PART I**

* * *

 **B**

His mother calls him one day.

It's May and there is snow on the ground, the sun on the sky, the clouds make shadows that chase children inside the house.

The sound the phone makes its like static and grinding metal but he knows it's his mother. Her voice is warm like honey, like the sting of a bee.

She asks him how he is doing.

"You're dead mother" he tells her. The phone is too big on his hands; he tangles his fingers on the cord.

The other side is dead and his ear is very, very cold. He thinks maybe, he has gone deaf, maybe has been all along. Then

"You wicked boy. Hateful creature I should have killed you when they told me to. End your pitiful existence and spare everyone a little pain. To meet you is sorrowful, to birth you is condemnation".

B looks at the window on the office, knows his reflection hasn't blink in two minutes.

His mother soars on the phone, crying such an ugly sound he hears glass break on the other side.

"You've been dead since I was born you old witch. Burn as you must"

He hangs up at the screaming, dizzy; his mother's voice turns into a full headache. His reflection blinks but doesn't smile as he expected it to, its pupils are blown wide and black.

The sun hides behind clouds, there are no shadows only dark. The snow melts, makes the garden glow an unnatural green.

He plays outside before they're all hauled in when the worst storm in the past 10 years hits them.

She doesn't call again.


	2. A

AN: So the idea is of a couple of little stories of the Wammy's kids and their experiences with the mystical/magical/supernatural/something or other.

Warnings for general creepiness and messy writting.

* * *

 **A**

A talks to animals. He talks to them, about them, about school, about God and the afterlife.

Animals are older than human, their knowledge is grand.

He smiles and plays with the plants. His hands and forearms are landmines of tiny slashes from spending sunrise to sunset at the bushes, inside them.

Thorns sprout from his hands and the nurse shakes her head while she takes the tweezers to his glossy skin, peeling stripes and chunks of skin to uncover the seeds.

A makes a wet sound, like the earth parting to make ways for the newest roots.


	3. L

**L**

He notices flowers growing under his bed, small petals and vibrant colors even in the wet dark and stale air.

He ignores the blood under his nails, painting half the nail bed in red, his fingers are purple-black.

He rips the flowers from the roots and burns them by the window.

His room fills with purple-black smoke and he closes his eyes too late. His eyes sting, his mouth feels like sandpaper and his skin itches so much he wants to peel it off. As it is, he does nothing but open his eyes and there is nothing, absolutely nothing in his room. No smoke, no flowers, no blood.

He dreams at night, of a time long past, of people that look like he knows them but when he speaks they don't know his name at all. Rather they do, but a different one, one that makes his stomach sink.

Their mouths fall, leaving a thin line of scarred tissue that vibrates as they try to speak, or scream, he is the one who screams and they try to calm him down but their fingers fall in chunks of dead meat, the hands follow, then the arms.

"Leprosy" It leaves his mouth. The scar on their mouths turns angry and black, yellow pus dripping.

They call him void.

 _Boy?_

He wakes up under the bed, head where he found the flowers but there is nothing there.

Bright white lights flash outside his third floor window. He curls up and tries to wake up again. He thinks he may die, he doesn't, no one has ever been that kind.


	4. Mello

**Mello**

Every day Mello wakes up at 4 am.

He gets on his knees by the edge of his bed and prays. Fervently.

He runs his fingers over the beads and murmurs so fast the words blend together to a string of _forgiveforgiveforgiveforgive_.

He runs out of breath but doesn't stop, prays harder when blood pours from his nose and the room gets cold.

The spirits surround him, all he knows is that they were human once.

They know his name and they what he fears.

They make his rosary rattle and the taps on the bathroom open, the bed creaks and sinks a full inch and Mello struggles not to lose his balance. They grip and pull at his clothes, fabric ripping and so cold.

His fingers and toes go numb and the rest of him is hypersensitive, aware.

They put a weight on his chest and he knows his heart rhythm must me be a mess.

He holds and prays until dawn when the sun chases them back to the murky corners of the room.

Out of sight out of mind, he sighs.

The clock reads 33:33.


	5. Matt

**Matt**

Matt owns exactly two pairs of ragged jeans, beyond the point of distressed, there's barely any fabric left at the knees **,** smelling of dried grass and nicotine. And a single black and red striped sweater.

Despite the weather, and the mockery of Mello, he wears the old same, day in and day out.

He has tried to purchase something different, has been given new clothes even, but as he climbs out of the shower there's the same jeans and sweater combo waiting for him on the rack.

It's a little comforting, the way they're always warm like they've been used.


	6. Linda

**Linda**

Linda is the artist.

She has long fingers and clear eyes.

She paints, she draws, makes light and shadow into paper.

She paints a mural on her wall one day, before a week is gone by the paint peels from humidity, making shadows on her room by evening.

Tall trees and the sounds of the forest, yellow bright eyes of the fauna, the cicadas sing from under her pillow.

 _"_ _You don't contain mother nature"_

Her landscape design teacher tells her after class, noticing the fluttering of her chest, fast shallow breaths and the heat on her cheeks.

 _The signs and symptoms of a novice._

Her teacher is a middle age woman with too many wrinkles, always seen in somber colours, wears bracelets with symbols on them and knows of balance and symmetry and destruction alike.

She ditches the class, destroys what is left of the mural with the wrath of the sky as the only sound on her head.

She paints portraits, the faces of the people she knows by heart, and the ones she discovers. She draws building and arches and admires the angles that reflect the light and the corners that hide from it, she tries to imitate it but the angles are forces to be reckoned on their own.

She knows the warnings by now.

She takes to the garden. Sits at the end of a green covered path, over her head, crunching on the soles of her shoes.

The flowers are still and bright, the wind makes no rush, no sound through this place.

The earth beneath her rumbles and roars.

She knows not to move.

* * *

So, we've come to the end, thanks for everyone who read it most sincerely, it means the world to little old me.

Moonflower, angel's trumpet, or datura is a type of flower that is really really pretty but horribly poisonous and cause anticholinergic symptoms and hallucinations, even death. Awful stuff.

Hauntings or pretty flower poisoning, we may never know.

Again, thank you all for bearing with me, love and kisses to ya'll.


	7. Near

**Near**

Near has never been obsessively orderly.

He likes puzzles and is drawn towards patterns.

On the occasion he has arranged his room, the puzzles pieces that had been put back on their boxes, the books arranged on the bookshelf, his clothing on their drawers, had been dragged down and littered on the carpeted floor upon his waking.

He investigates, eliminates all possibilities.

He is so sure no one outside his room is doing this, night after night, and none other provides him with guidance.

He must deal with it on his own.

Not one to give up, he arranges a mean of communication.

He readies for bed, arranges the mess made the night before but the puzzle pieces, those he arranges in an attempt of a two way conversation. Ask and you shall be answered.

 _I know you are there._

He frowns, unsure, maybe there's mold on the walls or on the carpet making him irrational, paranoid, plus he is itching all over. Physiological, definitely.

But he no longer feels alone in his room.

He tries to sleep, it becomes an impossible task, too much unfocused energy. He accepts for the first time one of the special teas he sees the difficult children drinking every night.

The drug hits him hard, he is drowsy and almost asleep before he even uncovers the bed. He wakes up 10 hours later in a blink, looking for the pieces and finding his vision not working as he prefers, he tries to rub the blurry edges off his eyes and shivers at the message before him written in white out puzzle pieces.

 _You're not._

Clear as the one he is sure he left last night.

He considers changing rooms but, as little as he knows of paranormal, and he is very wary to classify it as such, it might follow him. He has no means to state otherwise.

He reads all day, cold hard proven facts, the other kids call him names, that he is knowledge hungry, but all he knows for now is that he wants to be assured, grounded, latching on the hard sciences for that and not even a second spare for haunting on his mind.

He leaves another message at night, so far, _it_ has proven non harmful, is what he says to himself but even him, for the first time, sounds unsure, by now he feels short of patience for this nonsense.

He forgoes the tea this time, too distracting on its own, shuts his eyes, shuts his mind and sleeps with a stiff back.

The response makes him feel trapped, the walls too far from him and stretching even wider.

Maybe it goes like this for all Wammy's kids; they succeed and disappear, but they never leave.

 _We're the same._


End file.
